


Jaskier de Bergerac

by UlsPi



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, F/M, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Written for the ace week.Geraskier/Cyrano de Bergerac fusion with a twist.Jaskier is a part of the royal guard, but mostly he's there to sing praises to the four Witchers who accepted him into their ranks with reluctant joy.While Jaskier sleeps with everyone and everything, it's not that simple for him, and while Geralt hates even the thought of sex, he falls in love with the new royal mage. After all, Jaskier is unavailable, right? Not that Geralt would ever admit to having any romantic feelings towards that silly noble.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

Around Paris and across the country people called them the Witchers. It began as a compliment, became a legend and ended up as a silent curse. The Witchers guarded the king and thought in the king's wars; they protected the French people from all evil, and the people mostly looked at them as an abomination. 

However, among the nobles of the land, especially those who wanted to find favour in the king's eyes, it was customary to try and buy a place for one of their offspring among the Witchers. Vesemir, their captain, refused such attempts, but as the years went by and the kings changed, the number of the Witchers dwindled until there were just a few of them, practically immortal, due to quite inhuman experiments the alchemists had been running on the Witchers. 

The current king was young and a romantic, so when one of his mentors, the old viscount of Lettenhove, begged for a place for his mischievous son and heir among the Witchers, the king proved to be persistent. 

At first, Vesemir agreed to meet the young man, no promises made. Vesemir just wanted to get the king off of his back. 

Jaskier was a ray of sunshine, he was joyous, ridiculously brave for someone who couldn't match the Witchers' strength, and an absolute delight to be around. It had been years since someone looked at Vesemir or his subordinates as a thing worthy of wonder and love. 

"If you're to become one of us," Vesemir warned, "you'll have to go through a painful transformation…"

"Oh, no need for that," Jaskier reassured. He had bright blue eyes and Vesemir wanted to hug him like he would a rescued kitten. Jaskier was precious and beautiful and a poet, as he had mentioned right at the start. "I'm half-Elf. My father is desperate to protect me and my mother's memory… She left us, you see, when it turned out that being an Elf here wasn't exactly… a done thing." Jaskier turned sad - then smiled again. Vesemir couldn't refuse him, so Jaskier became one of the Witchers, although the young man insisted that he had done nothing to deserve being called such.

But he was lovely, he was delightful, he was a very good poet, and he proved to be so by restoring the Witchers' reputation with his songs and poems. 

Jaskier wasn't entirely hopeless with weapons, but his true strength lay in his intelligence, which Vesemir appreciated. Jaskier was easy-going, people loved him and shared their secrets with him without much persuasion.

Eskel, Vesemir's eldest, adored Jaskier, and so did Lambert, Vesemir's youngest, while Geralt, Vesemir's favourite, made a show of barely tolerating the young poet, but Jaskier took no offense. He followed Geralt around and praised him and wrote his best songs about him. 

Indeed mischievous and, according to Geralt,  _ more trouble than he was worth,  _ Jaskier pulled all kinds of problems his way, like the naughtiest star in the sky. He made a habit of sleeping with married people, he seemed to fall in love with someone new on a daily basis, not to mention all those times when Jaskier scandalised established poets and artists, fully relying on  _ his Witchers _ to protect him. 

And for Eskel and Lambert it was all fun and games, but for Geralt it was a torture, or so he claimed, but Eskel was a womaniser to only be matched by Jaskier, and Lambert had a lover in Aiden, one of the king's generals and the most beautiful man in France, according to Lambert himself, so mostly it was Geralt, who had never showed any interest in amorous adventures, that had to be on  _ the bard duty _ . 

Thus it was how one evening Geralt found himself by Jaskier's side - again - in a crowded theatre where Jaskier's most hated rival Valdo Marx was to give a recital of his latest poems. Jaskier's plan consisted of sabotaging the performance, and he hadn't thought of anything further. Geralt grunted. 

He took in the surroundings and elbowed Jaskier, who was chatting with everyone in his vicinity, charming his way into the crowd like only he could. 

"Who's that woman sitting by the king?" Geralt asked. Jaskier interrupted his flowing and flowery monologue and looked up where Geralt had pointed with his head.

"Oh, this is Yennefer of Vengerberg, the king's new mage. They say he's smitten with her, and who would blame him… Raven hair, violet eyes, bitchy attitude… She's dangerous. The very best Aretuza had ever trained."

Geralt was looking at the sorceress who smirked down at him, and couldn't see the way Jaskier gazed at Geralt. 

Jaskier had called him White Wolf, for Geralt had gone through more experiments than the alchemists considered possible, and those experiments turned his hair white. He was also the handsomest, the kindest of the Witchers, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. He had never taken credit for his deeds, and Jaskier had done his best to make sure everyone knew that it was Geralt who cared about the poorest and most vulnerable, who had never accepted any gratitude… 

And Jaskier looked at him with longing and humour. Jaskier enjoyed his company, although most people didn't… 

"You do you, bard," Geralt said absent-mindedly. 

"Of course, dear heart," Jaskier replied softly.

His longing and silent and slow heartbreak were interrupted by Valdo Marx who stepped onto the stage and began reciting the cheesiest verses known to man or cheese maker. He rhymed well, Jaskier could give him that, but he was solely technical, there was no wit to his poetry, no wisdom, no feeling. 

So Jaskier interrupted and insulted him. Geralt rolled his eyes. 

Some nobles surrounding Valdo, stepped forward and claimed to protect the poet… And Jaskier had slept with their spouses…

To which Jaskier of course replied that had they been any good in bed, their spouses wouldn't have succumbed to Jaskier's charms, which weren't insubstantial by any means, but…

Jaskier didn't get to finish. Geralt stepped in, all glare and deathly grace. 

Needless to say the evening ended up in a spectacular fight, Valdo Marx' humiliation and Yennefer's amusement, which Geralt found the most important part. 

As they were making their way back to the Witchers' quarters, Geralt asked:

"You're good with words, little lark. Do you think you could write a letter to Lady Yennefer for me?" 

Geralt had never asked anything of Jaskier. Or anyone. He had to be head over heels in love to lower his guards like that… to actually ask Jaskier for help.

"Oh, has the beautiful mage made her way to your ice cold heart that quickly?" Jaskier teased. He was scared that he'd reveal too much with his teasing, but Geralt was deep in his thoughts that never concerned Jaskier… oh Jaskier had to get over it…

"I will write her the best love letter," Jaskier promised sincerely. 

"Hmmm," Geralt replied. 

Back in his room, Jaskier sat at his desk, despite the cold and the exhaustion, and immediately set off composing the letter. Jaskier had enough friends at the court, had heard all the gossip concerning the sorceress, who seemed to have indeed bewitched the king and every person unlucky enough to be at the court that day. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Jaskier first arrived at the Witchers' quarters, Kaer Mohren, Geralt dismissed him immediately. In his mind, his reasoning was as solid and reliable as the steel of his sword: the young noble was chatty, chattering, maddening, too loud, too cheery, too much, and most importantly, he made the day brighter just by being there when Geralt greeted the day with a usual grump.

Eskel warmed up to Jaskier first, the traitor! Jaskier was well-educated, well-read and absolutely unnecessarily witty. Jaskier's advice helped Eskel a lot in his pursuits. 

Lambert followed. The traitor. It was something about the words too, Geralt remembered. Something that made the impeccable aristocrat Aiden was, into putty in Lambert's rough but gentle hands. Geralt refused to understand what  _ rough  _ and  _ gentle  _ did in the same sentence, but he wasn't much for talking. 

Listening, though…

He did listen. 

Jaskier was every bird ever. A skylark in the morning, a nightingale at night, a crow's screech, a dove's cooing. 

And he smelled so good! Chamomile, lavender, sometimes roses - Jaskier seemed very wistful when he smelled of roses, not that Geralt paid much attention.

There was no place for comfort in a Witcher's life, but suddenly there was a herbs garden, suddenly the Witchers had the most wonderful tea, suddenly the food stopped being just a portion of something nutritious and turned into a work of art; suddenly there were clean drapes and curtains; suddenly the laundry smelled clean and not just like some cheap soap. Suddenly the fires were lit every evening and well into the night. Suddenly there were oils in the Witchers' baths, and the balms and potions became softer, making healing and relaxing something more than a necessity. 

Jaskier was pampering them, Geralt realised one day, and he didn't have it in him to complain or make it stop, because Jaskier's blue blue blue eyes shone brightly every time he looked at Geralt. 

Jaskier mended their clothes. (And Geralt didn't notice - presumably - but when Jaskier mended his shirts, he made sure to embroider a dandelion or a buttercup on every inch of fabric. Geralt just assumed Jaskier did it for everyone. Fop. Fool. Annoying little thing. Geralt's lark and nightingale and crow and dove.)

Jaskier's songs, however naughty, didn't make Geralt cringe. 

But Jaskier loved love, loved making love, loved being a lover, and Geralt's idea of a lover was someone he could cuddle up with, could kiss softly on the lips, but no tongues, no saliva, and the clothes had to stay on… 

And Jaskier fucked his way through Paris. 

What could Geralt have offered? 

So Geralt offered nothing but grunts and  _ hmmms _ and harsh words. 

And Jaskier kept looking at him as if Geralt had been the only thing in the world deserving of warmth and love and care. 

Vesemir once tried talking some so called sense into Geralt and said that fucking wasn't the most important ingredient of live and companionship, but Geralt dismissed his captain. 

That evening when Geralt saw Yennefer, he felt a tingle of kinship - she was powerful, freezing cold and scorching hot, a goddess, someone who dismissed the attentions of the king with arrogance and pride. She had to be like Geralt, or so Geralt thought. After all, he yearned for  _ someone _ , for love. 

Jaskier came to him in the morning, pale and blue, trembling with cold. "Here you go, Geralt."

Geralt rubbed his eyes and looked through the offered letter.

"Us poets, right?" Jaskier chuckled. "Always have a letter up out sleeve…"

"You haven't slept a wink," Geralt replied. Without looking at Jaskier, obviously. 

"So what? When inspiration… Oh fuck it, Geralt. Just… go get her." Geralt's morning lark smiled without any smile.

As the days and weeks went by, Jaskier faithfully supplied Geralt with letters - heartbreaking, oozing devotion and loyalty and love, none of which Geralt felt for the sorceress. Jaskier seemed to have been writing Geralt's own yearning for  _ Jaskier _ , which was becoming increasingly torturous.

The Witchers were gathered around the fire one evening, and Lambert asked teasingly:

"Say, Jask, why do you fuck everyone?" 

Geralt grew cold, but then he felt that so did his little lark next to him - always next to him.

"I hope to feel something. The books, the poetry endlessly praise the act of lovemaking. It's joyous, it is… but I don't need it, never yearn for it. Someone smiles at me, and I want to reward them for so much trust… Silly me," he chuckled disparagingly. 

"You mean… you don't want to fuck them silly?" Lambert asked incredulously. Eskel shook his head, the smug bastard, licked his finger and turned another page.

"Why don't you sing for us, lark?" Vesemir suddenly asked.

"Oh, I'd love nothing more!" Jaskier exclaimed. 

And he sang. 

Geralt hated his singing.

Geralt couldn't breathe without his singing because when Jaskier sang Geralt's heart was taken out of his chest and put in front of him, and it wasn't an ugly heart. Geralt couldn't stand a thought of himself being noble and kind…

The evening ended with Jaskier washing Geralt's hair - Geralt thought he did it for everyone. Geralt was carefully holding another letter in his hands, doing his best to keep it dry, while Jaskier rubbed oils into Geralt's scalp. 

Geralt would never admit to it, but he loved the way his long hair felt when it ran between Jaskier's fingers. In Jaskier's fingers Geralt's hair wasn't grey, washed out, a curse from all the experiments Geralt had gone through; in Jaskier's fingers Geralt's hair was silver, was beautiful, was a blessing. 

"You seem to be speaking from experience," Geralt noted, having read the letter. "Who is… who are they?" He asked. He was mad with jealousy and with something warm and wistful and yearning, that tied itself into knots in his stomach. And chest. And every muscle. Every cell of his.

"I don't need anyone in particular, Geralt. A smell, an image… I'm a poet, and I don't need to live through an experience to write about it." Jaskier was washing Geralt's hair. Geralt preened at the attention, at the easy connection and caress. 

And as for lady Yennefer, she preened at the attention too. She made sure to let Geralt know that his letters had left an impression. 

Geralt was scared of any encounter she might set. After all, his heart and his mind and whatever he had of his body to offer, according to himself and what he thought of Jaskier's tastes, belonged to Jaskier, however hard he fought it. 

Finally, lady Yennefer set up a date. Geralt had to come to her mansion and speak with her from under her balcony. 

"I'm not doing this," Geralt grunted. 

"Well, you wanted her!" Jaskier answered. "I wrote all those letters for  _ yo _ u!" 

Geralt couldn't tell what had offended his lark more… Geralt had no right to call Jaskier his anything. Jaskier wasn't his. 

That was how Geralt found himself under Yennefer's balcony, the night being a perfect cover. Jaskier whispered the necessary words, and Geralt dared repeat them…

He might have been back at his quarters, with Jaskier and Vesemir and his brothers… Why was he so weak for company? Why was he so desperate?

Finally Yennefer called him and commanded him to join her in her chambers. Jaskier smiled in the dark.

Geralt climbed up to reach the balcony. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Yennefer looked Geralt up and down. "You're very handsome," she said. 

Geralt just grunted. 

"Oh… eloquent only on paper… I see that now."

She walked around him, no touch, just those curious violet eyes. 

"I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you, Geralt of Rivia. I have no interest in the pleasures of the flesh… but I'd love a kiss. Not on the lips. Maybe my hand? My wrist?"

Geralt grew cold. 

It was everything he had wanted, everything he had wished for. There she was, the sorceress, powerful and just like Geralt, almost immortal, and she wanted just what Geralt had wished she might want, but Jaskier's sad face chased Geralt, reminded him of the one he truly wanted. Jaskier might have been different, might have found joy in many people, but Geralt wanted _him_ , every ounce of him he could claim without violating his own nature. 

Yennefer walked around him once more. She stopped by Geralt's front and raised on the balls of her feet to kiss Geralt. It meant nothing, just like Jaskier's letters had meant nothing and everything.

"You don't seem to be invested into this… your letters suggested otherwise."

"My letters," Geralt sighed. "My letters suggested adoration and a wish for love."

"Aren't you going to kiss my wrist, then?" Yennefer asked.

Geralt shut his eyes. He wasn't in the right place or at the right time. His honest mind has always pictured Jaskier where Yennefer was standing now, and however talented Jaskier was, however much Geralt wanted to believe in a possibility of him and Yennefer having that perfect romance, it couldn't be perfect because it wasn't Jaskier.

Jaskier, who was supposed to run and fuck someone.

Jaskier who kept standing under that balcony, weeping and cursing and blessing Geralt. 

"I thought… I hoped you were like me. Thought you didn't want… ravishing. You could have had the king ravishing you, but you rejected him. I want… want a companion."

"I can smell your bard on you. I don't think I can be your companion."

Suddenly she seemed tired. "I hate sex. I just hate it. Thank you for… for being just like me."

Geralt hoped he'd be happy to hear it, but it wasn't good, wasn't right. Jaskier might have never wanted him, but Geralt only ever wanted Jaskier, and so the words left Geralt's mouth before he could consider them.

"I hoped you'd be like me. I asked my… I asked Jaskier to woo you, because you're smart and beautiful, and I… I'm hopeless with words."

Yennefer touched Geralt's face. "We can't be right for each other just because we hate sex. You… you tricked me and I'm mad with you, but it seems you have a heartbreak of your own."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care about your apologies, Witcher. You tricked me and I can't even respect you… but you're heartbroken, so you've punished yourself enough. Go. Fuck off."

Geralt left Yennefer's mansion without really realising he had done so.

Back in Kaer Morhen he looked for Jaskier.

"Where are you, little lark? Our plan didn't work, where are you, my sweet?"

Geralt was too exhausted to think clearly, and he wasn't ready to realise that even someone like him might reject him, but his lark, he wouldn't ever refuse him, he wouldn't.

So Geralt kept wandering the keep, went on looking for the bard. 

Jaskier's letters ran through Geralt's mind, those confessions, those poetic lines. Maybe he could accept Geralt after all, maybe he would agree to just being cuddled and protected…

Once, Jaskier kissed his wrist, but Geralt didn't pay attention because his wrist was wounded.

Once, Jaskier held Geralt after washing his hair, but just for a fleeting moment. 

Yennefer was clever, she couldn't be wrong, no one but Geralt could be wrong.

Maybe, maybe… maybe. 

He walked around the keep until sunrise.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt found Jaskier late in the morning. The bard was sitting on the ground in the garden with his back pressed to the sturdy greenhouse Eskel had built a year before. 

"Little lark?" Geralt whispered. He hadn't had a sip of water for hours, he was exhausted - and Jaskier was home and rest. And water, for he looked at the Witcher and handed him a flask of water. 

"Have you been crying?" Geralt asked. 

"No. Something in my eye," Jaskier replied and rubbed his eyes furiously. "How was your night?" 

Geralt carefully sat next to the bard by the potatoes and carrots. 

"She… she's like me."

Jaskier let out a sob, but quickly dismissed it as a cough. Geralt's heart ached for him. "But I… your letters… They… they did help, only…"

"Spit it out, Geralt," Jaskier asked with a chuckle. Geralt slowly turned to face the younger man, his lark and nightingale, blue-eyed and soft, brighter than autumn leaves and the last sun of November. 

"I saw… you. I can't give you… fucking." Geralt shut his eyes. "I hate it. I don't want to try it. I don't… I… Jask, could you take me as… as I am? Could you… hold me? Let me… love you?"

Jaskier sobbed again. "Geralt… oh dear heart." Jaskier held him. "Open your eyes."

Geralt did. 

"I don't care about fucking. What happened with Yennefer?"

"She called me out on my bullshit. I… I thought I couldn't have you, and…"

"Shhhh. I've got you."

Jaskier rocked the larger man back and forth. They stayed by the greenhouse until noon.

"We're risking turning into carrots and potatoes ourselves. Let's go inside." Jaskier stood up, tugging gently on Geralt's sleeve. "Come. You need a bath and some food."

A bath and breakfast were had in silence, which made Geralt uncomfortable - he was used to Jaskier being loud and happy. 

"Please, don't mistake my silence for anything bad," Jaskier said quietly, reading Geralt's mind. "I thought I lost you. Thought I couldn't have you. I'll be back to annoying you in no time." His smile was stiff and didn't reach his eyes, but it was a smile, so Geralt settled for it in the meantime. He nodded.

"I loved you when we met. When Vesemir brought me here and you sat in the corner, brooding. Wanted to hold you and make you laugh."

Geralt's mouth was very dry. "Please don't mistake my silence for the lack of… feeling. I can't… make speeches."

"All the more focus on being in love with me," Jaskier's smile was more sincere this time. "You are, aren't you?"

"I am. I am, little lark."

"Your little lark."

"My little lark."

"Do you still want me to write you love letters?" Jaskier asked this so tenderly, Geralt couldn't have refused. And the letters were brilliant. 

"I would very much like that, yes." He smiled. 

"Me too." Jaskier took Geralt's hand. "This will be our love making."


End file.
